


Under The Stagelights

by fearofElderly353



Category: Camp Camp (Web Series)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Bad things happen to Max, Explicit Language, Humor at the expense of others, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Smart characters, Stupid characters, sad things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 15:23:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11808747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fearofElderly353/pseuds/fearofElderly353
Summary: On the brink of his college career, at his ideal, choice University, with his best friend Max as his dorm-mate, Neil can only hope that nothing fucks up the next few years of his life. But when he's forced to attend a stupid magic show which goes against everything he stands for as a man of science, he realizes that hope is just as much of an illusion as trick-rings and floating assistants.





	Under The Stagelights

Out of all of the horrendous and trivial places to be when Neil _really_ should have been preparing for classes, Nikki had to drag them to a fucking _magic_ show.

 

He was glad she was visiting, really; he hadn’t seen her in ages, and as much fun of company as Max generally was, Neil was... grateful, more or less, for the variation in his limited amount of social interaction. But in his longing to see his old friend, Neil had completely submerged all thoughts about the dangers that Nikki’s spontaneity could present; about why her ringtone was a recording of tornado sirens instead of the same, bland chiptune melody that all of his other contacts had; and about why he still had trouble falling asleep without a padded vest strapped onto his body.

 

Here, at an ostentatious theater somewhere in the center of the city, surrounded by a crowd of mass-produced toddlers wearing blazers, sweating nervously under the harsh light above him, and listening to Nikki ramble on about how famous this magician and his entourage were, Neil regretted having ever let _Nikki_ make the plans between the three of them more than he regretted showing up to prom senior year, which was a lot.

 

He looked to Max hopefully, as if his clever long-time friend and soon-to-be-college-roommate could pull an escape or distraction out of his sleeve as seamlessly as the stage-performers whom they’d begrudgingly come to see ( upon realizing that Nikki had already purchased tickets for all of them, and that there was no way out of this which didn’t involve crushing her feelings into a pulpy mess of Nikki juice) could make a coin appear out of “thin air.” But Max, with a dead look in his fluorescent green eyes, shrugged non-committedly, and shoved a handful of popcorn into his mouth, wordlessly solidifying his inability to get them out of this one.

 

Feeling a steady trickle of effervescent nerves crawl up his already too-dry throat, Neil excused himself, asking Nikki to save his seat while he went to the bathroom, and ran the heck out of dodge as soon as he made it out of sight, past the grand wooden doors and red carpets, and through the golden, decorated corridors of the enormous building, until he found an unoccupied corner where he could just breathe for awhile.

 

He walked to the end of the abandoned hallway he had happened upon and slumped to the floor, resting his head on the fabric covering his knees, and repetitively tapping his fingers across the worn polyester on the edge of his sneakers. Above him was a plaque, the face of an overweight man with bald patches on his head snarling directly at the camera, (probably intentionally) causing discomfort to all those who gazed at his hideous mustache.

 

Neil stood, slowly, and read aloud the quote the man had left behind at the admission of whoever was in charge of decorating this place, who, for some reason, had deemed this man respected and adored by a large enough number of people to have his words impact the surprisingly numerous visitors to the theater.

 

“ _Plans are above all beautiful and structured things. They come together like carefully woven silk, in lines just so, sparkling in the sunlight to create wild patterns beyond comprehension; gazed upon intently by entranced creatures, wandering closer and closer to reach out and climb them. But unless they can climb like a spider and walk upon the silver tightropes with utmost focus and perseverance, they become tangled, victims to their own naive hopes. One trip on a string is the only catalyst necessary before they’re tangled in the hopes and dreams that once excited them so; before they squirm and squirm and thrash and thrash and are devoured by the unseen predator that lurked just behind them, elated that they have fallen into the sticky thread; elated at the taste of dissatisfaction and misery_.”

 

Neil paused momentarily, squinting at the small inscription below. “ _Also, fuck kids, this generation sucks… signed, the Minister of Thailand_?”

 

He backed away, wrinkling his nose. “What the fuck kind of speech is that supposed to be?”

 

“Why, the speech of a wise and honored magician,” an accented voice piped up from behind him. “Nah, I’m just kidding. Mr. Campbell was kind of a jerk.”

 

Neil produced a screeching noise at the exact moment he became aware of a warm hand assaulting his shoulder, abruptly spinning him around until he was face to face with a bundle of flowers that he recognized as the deadly, but dazzling, _Amaryllidaceae Hippeastrum._

 

“For you, handsome stranger,” the distinctly male voice from just a few seconds ago declared, pressing the flowers further into Neil’s face. Neil couldn't help but become vaguely annoyed by his inflection, if only because he'd never heard anything like it before. Was it Israeli? Was it Spanish?

 

Neil shook those thoughts aside, and passive-aggressively began to push the offending bundle of red down.

 

“Uh, no thanks. I’m not really into flowers, they make me sneeze. Besides, if you’re trying to be romantic, the Amaryllis plant is no way to go. Most commonly, it symbolizes…”

 

He froze, as the bright curtain of flowers was replaced by a caramel-skinned face, marked by irises as gold as the walls enclosing them, a lumpy dwarven nose, and a close-lipped smirk. He felt a blush creep onto his face.

 

“...pride… It most commonly symbolizes… pride.”

 

The man grinned, a flash of white only attainable by hours of painstakingly slow bleaching that couldn’t be good for a person.

 

“I didn’t choose the flowers, silly. They appeared because of magic!” he said, stretching out the vowels in “magic” to an unnecessary and uncomfortable length.

 

Neil scoffed. Every small ounce of respect he had, or could have, accumulated for this man wavered away. “Are you kidding me? Don’t use a false pretense of magical ability to cover up your lack of knowledge about flower culture.”

 

The tall boy leaned in, and delicately bumped a gloved finger on Neil’s nose.

 

“It’s not a false pretense, Neil, I really am magical.” He chuckled, winking with his left eye. “ I have to be, I’m a magician!”

 

Neil rolled his eyes.

 

 _Of course_ this guy was a “magician.” Why not?

 

It was inevitable that the first time a guy would show actual interest in him, he would be some wanna-be-wizard who wasted eighty dollars for a ticket to a show displaying four hours of pure smoke, mirrors, and unadulteratedly lengthy interludes.

 

“Cut the act, you weirdo,” he drawled. “Nobody believes in magic except little kids and drunk adults.”

 

How confidence and anger melded together so well on the stranger's handsome face was a mystery to Neil, but, _goddamn_ , was it hot, especially when he gripped Neil's shoulder fiercely, maintaining direct eye contact as he leaned so close Neil could feel his breath on his cheek.

 

The man was channeling his passion through every biological signal he had to use, from his flaring nostrils to his heated cheeks. Neil could practically feel it radiating from him.

 

"I beg to differ," he muttered, voice barely loud enough for Neil to hear him. "How many people do you think came tonight to see _this_ show alone? How many people do you think attend performances annually?"

 

Neil sighed, delicately removing the brown haired stranger’s hand from his shoulder, praying to a God he didn’t believe in that the stranger couldn’t see the anxious sweat pooling down the side of his face.  

 

See, the so called magician wasn't wrong.

 

At least half the audience was made up of individuals who both believed in magic _and_ were capable adults, at least by society's standards(although Neil's standards had a few things to say about that).

 

But Neil refused to give the man an answer which would satisfy him, or resolve the conflict between them. Magic was the most idiotic lie he’d ever seen so many people care about, excluding religion, and he’d be damned if he was going to, in any way, make it seem like anything more than the sham it really was.

 

"Fine," Neil conceded.

 

"There are a few _Luddites_ who like to entertain the idea of 'magic,'" he used air quotations, "if only because their already overworked brain cells can't come up with a more logical explanation for your kind's illusions."

 

A laugh was…

 

...not, what Neil had expected to hear after insulting the man.

 

“Oh, so you don’t believe in magic? That’s great,” he said. He poised his hand across his chin in a position reminiscent of famous philosophers.

 

“I’ll bet you, like, twenty dollars that I can convince you it’s real.”

 

It was Neil’s turn to laugh. “Please, as much as twenty dollars would come in handy if I needed to make a _vending machine_ purchase, I’m not really lacking in money. Besides, your challenge seems flawed. What’s the time limit on this thing? Would we have to exchange phone-numbers? What even qualifies as ‘belief?’”

 

The stranger pulled a top-hat off his head that Neil would swear on Max’s life hadn’t been there before, and slumped it on top of Neil’s own mess of curls.

 

“You scared, Neil?” he asked. "You know, it's okay if you don't want to get your mind freaked by my amazing powers. I understand that it might be too much for your brain to handle."

 

Neal's sweater was feeling itchy. "While that tactic might have worked on me if I was, like, twelve, I'm afraid you're going to have to try a lot harder than that if you want to goad me into your pathetically failed attempts at proving something that defies the very laws of nature." He removed the top-hat from his head, squeezing the shiny fabric in his hands. An inscription was on the ribbon, sewed in yellow thread, which read:

 

_"Neil"_

 

"The fuck?" Neil exclaimed, alarm bells almost as loud as the ones which rang every time Max and his adoptive brother David were in the same room together echoing through the hollows of his ears. "How did you know my name?"

 

Not only was this undeniably creepy, it was _incredibly distasteful._ Like, come on, yellow is an ugly color. Geez.

 

While Neil was burning with a newfound sense of fear, the stranger in front of him simply winked again, this time with his right eye, and gave a small, showy bow. It was unfair, to Neil, that such a crazy person was _also_ kind of smooth.

 

"I told you," he chirped, voice as soft as... Well, Neil could think of an analogy later.

 

" It's-"

 

"No. Fuck you," Neil interrupted. "Don't try to pretend this was a magic trick."

 

He put on his best _bad-cop_ persona, despite an internal awareness that it probably didn't make him seem as cool or confident as he hoped it would. "Have you been... following me?"

 

"No, really, I... Pick a card, any card?" For the first time that night, the boy looked unsure; young, sweaty, and with a choppy haircut crowning his temples, and- _no,_ Neil was not going to start empathizing with this guy.

 

"Do you really think I'm that gullible? That I'm stupid?" he seethed.

 

The man frowned, tugging at his sharply pointed collar. “Uh, no, actually, I, uh…”

 

“Well, fuck you, random magic guy. I just wanted to be alone, and then _you_ came along with your _stupid_ tricks and _stupid_ romantic gestures.” His finger found its way to the man’s chest, a tight black waistcoat adorning his torso, and he took a step forwards.

 

“Go find some other impressionable idiot to bedazzle, because I have had it up to here,” he gestured wildly, “with ‘magic.’ I don’t even _want_ to be stuck in this lame theater! I’d rather be studying, or fixing my computer, or _literally_ doing anything else! But instead, I have to deal with _this shit_ all night for my hyper-active friend who I haven’t seen in four months!”

 

Neil was near hysterical now, and the man’s eyes were darting around nervously, bushy brown eyebrows accentuating his confusion.

 

“And, now,” the man said, in a loud demeanor worthy of a Shakespearean play. “I will perform the greatest trick of all: disappearing!”

 

He tugged a purple pouch out of his pocket, and threw it on to the ground. Smoke drifted up from its broken shell, forcing its way into all of Neil's facial orifices, and engulfing the taxi-wide hallway in air so thick it was choking him.

 

“What the hell?” he hissed, waving his arms frantically on the off chance that he might be able to clear the air or hit the stranger in the face.

 

When he realized that this was going nowhere, he ran out of the hallway, coughing as much of the stuff out of his lungs as he could, and stared at the purple cloud until it gradually diffused among the pleasantly cool air of the isolated corridors.

 

The incredibly creepy stranger was gone; all that was left in his wake was the top-hat and a shriveled-up smoke bomb. Neil groaned, painstakingly aware that the probability of him actually getting some time to himself, especially since he’d already been gone for what, fifteen minutes now, was below the standard needed for him to have a good time.

 

“Stupid magic hippy and his stupid and totally false perception of reality,” Neil muttered to himself, kneeling over to clean up the fragments of the smoke bomb, like a good person. He kept his hand suspended over it momentarily to check for lingering heat and smiled when he felt nothing. But as soon as his finger touched a piece of the purple garbage, it folded into itself, all of the shards clicking together to form one shape: an envelope.

 

He realized quickly enough what it was for.

 

“Oh no, fuck you, I am _not_ opening this,” he practically shouted to the empty hallway. “I have had enough of you. It’s not like I’m going to have a panic attack if I don’t read whatever rudimentary farewell you left me.”

 

Five minutes later, Neil was rocking on the floor with his head between his legs. “Shit,” he cursed himself. “Shit, shit, shit, shit.” He really should be going back. Nikki and Max were going to think he ditched them, or was super sick, and he didn’t really care for either scenario. He mentally sorted the pros and cons of giving in to the temptation to read the letter, and decided that being found hyperventilating in a hallway by a theater’s security guards, or even worse, a performer, was worse than anything magic-boy could come up with.

 

“Fine, I’ll open it,” he said. “Don’t take this as a victory.”

 

He tenderly caressed the paper, and slid his fingers under the unsealed flap protecting the contents within.

 

“This is it,” he whispered.

 

Trepidation hung in the air, or maybe that was just lingering smoke, as Neil pulled out a slip of paper with messy scrawling etched onto it, seemingly haphazardly. The edges were worn, ink was smeared in the margins where a small cat with a head too big was doodled, and was that "i" missing a dot, and- yes, Neil was definitely stalling; don’t even act like you wouldn’t be scared too.

 

He gulped, and relented to reading it aloud just as he done with the quote that had gotten him into this mess.

 

" _Are you magical, because..._ " He already regretted all of his life choices. " _Abra-ca-damn."_

 

Neil face-palmed his quickly reddening face. "You have got to be kidding me."

 

" _Neil, I felt like our connection was electrical. Coincidentally, we need a technician to help us with stage lights. And you're not stupid, so, you can probably do it or something. See you there- Harrison."_

 

So that was his name. Perfect: Neil knew exactly what to do with that information.

 

"Fuck you, Harrison."

 


End file.
